The house smells of olive oil and smoke; scents of Chanukah that make me nostalgic for the childhood I’m in middle of.

“I absolutely love Chanukah,” I announce to no one in particular from my office chair in the dining room.

Aharon smiles as he strolls by, on the phone with his chavrusa in Eretz Yisrael, no doubt.

Ma comes out of the kitchen, dusting flour off her sweater. “Me, too,” she says. “You coming to help me fry latkes?”

“Uh, Ma. Can’t really move here.”

I gesture to my chair and take a deep sip from the mug of hot cocoa at my side.

I then have the very intuitive feeling that my mother is trying not to roll her eyes. Call me brilliant.

“Yes, dear, I remember you are incapacitated. But I’ll ask the boys to move you into the kitchen so you can peel potatoes if you’d like.”

I would very much not like, but considering that Babby is propped up on the couch surrounded by pillows, I figure Mommy needs a break from the infirmary her house has become.

“Sure, Ma.” I smile sweetly.

Moments later, Naftoli and Yehuda are rolling my chair into the kitchen, making the usual comments about how it’s like pushing a small elephant through a swamp. Oh, hardy har har.

I take up my post at the table and begin peeling.

Daddy pokes his head in. “Half-hour to lighting alert,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Mhhhm, it smells amazing in here.”

I bob my head regally. “Why, thank you, Father.”

“Bella! You haven’t even started cooking yet!” Mommy says, exasperatedly, but she’s laughing.

I grin and take a bow and then a twinge of pain makes its way up my leg like a small bolt of lightning. “Ow!” I mutter. I drop the peeler in agitation. “I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t do anything!”

Ma freezes, one hand on her frying pan. “Bella—”

I know, I know I’m being over the top, but take a regular person and tell them they’re having leg surgery, and they’re bound to get anxious. Tell a ballet dancer, and she’ll be jittery all week. Tell me, and I’ll have full-blown conniptions every time I think about it. There are just too many what-ifs and worst-cases.

What if there’s a blackout during surgery and they accidently amputate my leg?

What if the surgeon opens up my leg, takes one look, and decides it’s inoperable?

What if they accidentally sew my Achilles tendon together inside out?

Or, putting all those crazy-person theories aside, what if I have smooth, drama-free surgery… and it fails? And I can never dance again?

The tears, never far these days, begin to flow.

“Naftoli,” I choke out thickly, “please come move me.”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 792)